Lone Mission
by Misty Satin Dream
Summary: CHAP 5 UP & it is huge! What a roll I am on here! I'll disclaim here: I don't own King Arthur. The end. Thanks to all my reviewes let me know what you think of this part.In brief: Arthur takes off on a secret, solo mission Lancelot stumbles upon it.
1. Orders

**Lone Mission**

Chapter One: Orders

"_Open the gate—now!"_

The call rang clearly in the thawing April air. It woke Lancelot from his dreamless sleep, eyes snapping open as though he had overslept and was now late for some important event. But the sun was not breaking through his thin curtains, nor was any other sign of daylight. The fireplace on the far end of his quarters still glowed brightly and he knew from the heaviness of his eyelids that he had not been asleep very long.

"Alert the next watch to be prepared for his return," a different voice demanded. 

Lancelot pushed himself up by his arms, landing both feet on the wooden floor with a single, quaking _thud._ He searched the length of Hadrian's Wall with his eyes before turning to the gates. The commotion had already settled but the darkness could not shroud the lone figure thundering away from the Wall. In the pale quarter-moon light, Arthur Castus' white horse gleamed. Even as he reached the tree line, a white dash could be seen in between the thick foliage and brambles. Arthur was riding alone.

Confused and curious, Lancelot swung his breastplate over his shoulder and hurried down the torch-lit hallway. He nearly woke his brother knights to inquire about Arthur's strange mission, but left them to their snoring. If they knew anything of this, surely the Roman's first knight would have been informed as well.

The air of the stable was stale and chilling to Lancelot's lungs as he hurried to saddle his bay stallion. As sleep continued to file its cobwebs away, the unusualness of the situation crept into Lancelot's ears, dusting his mind with trepidation.

"Never leave one another alone. None of us—" he always glared at Lancelot—"none of us are invincible. Fight as you live: in brotherhood…" Their commander had always said.

Arthur wasn't particularly taken with hypocrisy.

Lancelot spurred his horse through the gate, bolting across the lightly fogged plain towards the still, black forest. The breeze was still in winter's clutch, but there was in it a fragrance of lilac and jasmine—hints of the spring. The fog thickened considerably as the trees engulfed the team, forcing Lancelot to slow the horse to a restless trot. Brambles picked at his bare hands and cheeks; he waved uselessly in front of him, unable to see where he reached. Eventually, the stallion's sides did not push so forcefully outward on Lancelot's legs and the knight could hone his ears in on clues his eyes were restricted from.

He knew Arthur couldn't have gained too much ground on him due to the fog and the tangled wood. The wind was leaving the fog in dense pockets, occasionally giving him clear visibility. Lancelot thought of calling out to the Roman but quickly abandoned the idea. He had heard a faint stumbling ahead and the clop of a horses' hooves on the mossy floor that was not his own. Lancelot sat frozen atop his halted steed—listening, listening. The fog hugged him again as he slid silently off of his mount. He knew, as every one of his senses pulsed, that just before him stood Arthur, who was as unmoving as a statue. Lancelot couldn't suppress a coy grin at the boyish situation—a grin that didn't fade, even when his horse snorted loudly and the hidden figure used the disturbance as his moment, unsheathing a sword and running forward all in an instant so fast that even in the fog Lancelot caught a glimpse of Excalibur's supernatural glow as the blade stopped centimeters from his throat.

"Arthur…it's _me…_" Lancelot said with a nervous half-laugh. There was no response for a moment but he could vaguely make out the familiar features of the Roman. Cautiously—hesitantly—the blade moved away from his unprotected skin.

"I know," the captain answered, his voice low and thick. Lancelot's smile vanished. But before he could say a word or gather a thought—

"Please go back to the wall."

"Where are you going?" Lancelot questioned, deliberately ignoring Arthur. He saw Arthur lower his eyes to the side, followed by his head, not answering. The Roman turned around, taking a step back to his horse.

"Arthur—" Lancelot blurted, grabbing hold of his arm gently, forcing him to look back. The knight's forehead crinkled when he could finally see Arthur clearly.

"Your face, Arthur…" he mumbled, lifting a few fingers up to touch his cheekbone. The brambles had cut him deeply; the wound bled sluggishly down the warrior's face.

Arthur pulled away, turned away, _whimpering _this time, "Please go back to the wall…" Lancelot moved to stand in his path.

"No, not until you tell me where you're going." Arthur's eyes were suddenly threatening; Lancelot refused to move. There was a drawn-out silence, weighing down upon Lancelot impart due to the damp and impart due to his friend's dull complexion. Arthur's eyes softened and took on a look of defeat that jabbed a needle into Lancelot's chest. He did not stop Arthur when he walked around him, mounting his horse.

"Please go back to—"

"Not until--"

"_Don't make me order you, Lancelot!_ You know I--"Arthur's voice rose sharply and then crumbled in chokehold.

"You know I can't bear it_…_" The Roman whispered: words Lancelot was sure he was not meant to hear.

Stunned stiff, Lancelot blinked uselessly as Arthur was enveloped by the fog. He stood there long after any sound of the retreating horse could be distinguished from the wind and nocturnal creatures of the forest.

When he finally returned to Hadrian's Wall, dawn was not even on the brink of birth.


	2. Meetings

Chapter Two: Meetings

Before he even opened his eyes, Lancelot's hands flew instinctively behind his head, clutching his twin blades. A rustling near him had snapped his light, uncomfortable slumber as he suddenly remembered why he sat on scratchy hay amongst the smell of horses. He had not left the stables; the knight had not meant to fall asleep, but to wait with a burning mind—for Arthur.

The Roman was brushing his ivory stallion with a blank expression. Lancelot, blinking his eyes rapidly at the new daylight scrambled to his feet with a sore groan. Arthur did not even turn his head.

"Strange that a legendary knight of the Round Table would sleep with the horses…" he smirked, a smile creeping to the corners of his mouth. Lancelot was not amused.

"Strange that a commander would break his own rule of traveling alone," Lancelot retorted. Arthur's smile gloomed over. He sighed deeply and then turned his eyes to his knight's.

"I did not venture far, Lancelot. And besides, I think I am capable of riding through the woods alone every now and again…"

"Are your knights not capable, Arthur?" Lancelot hurled at him. "Are we not trained soldiers, _grown men_, for that matter?" Arthur wrinkled his forehead.

"You know I posses not one shred of doubt in any of my knights' abilities--"

"Tell me where you went," he demanded suddenly, stepping towards the Roman. Arthur's eyes betrayed his surprise; his silly surprise that Lancelot had not given up. He looked away briefly, licking his lips to prepare some sort of explanation.

"I simply rode, Lancelot. I couldn't sleep so I--" The knight let out a loud, interrupting cackle, dropping his arms to his sides.

"Honestly Arthur, after all of our years together, did you really believe I would find that legitimate? Just tell me the _truth_, Arthur. Put my concerns to rest. Was it for God? Did you race away, slash open the side of your face, and pull your weapon on me to talk to your God?"

"I would never hold my sword to you in the name of God, Lancelot, _never!_" Arthur erupted. "Not even if He ordered it himself. Do not ever presume that again." Lancelot was momentarily silenced. Arthur shook his head slowly from side to side. Through clenched teeth, he painfully repeated, "_Not if He ordered me himself." _

"Then _why?" _The Roman turned away. Arthur did not even here the strained question; he was lost in memories of the previous evening:

"_Your knights are legendary, Arthur Castus. Renowned in Rome—renowned the world over!" The robed figure spun his golden goblet in his hand, scraping it against his many rings. _

"_Thank you, sir. We offer you all our services and protection while you remain in Britain." Two servants approached him intently, one offering a tumbler of dark wine, the other holding a plate of fruits and cheeses under his nose. He waved them off anxiously. _

"_Forgive me, sir, but may I inquire as to how I may be of service now, at such an hour?" Arthur had asked politely as possible. The governor let out a bellow of laughter; Arthur could only shift his weight, uncomfortably bringing his face to a partial grin, failing to find the humor in his query. _

"_You see, Arthur Castus? That is just what I've heard about you: your frankness. How refreshing from the stuffy, scheming politics of Rome. Now let me be frank with you, Arthur. I love to indulge myself in…shall we say, entertainment? Of course, I am more than exultant to serve Rome in this _insufferable_ place." The Roman spat sharply to the side. "But there are simply some luxuries I will not go without._

"_So, Arthur, I propose a deal. I can end your command today, advance you more money than you will ever see from the Roman army and you can return to home as soon as the arrangements are made." Arthur's muscles were pulled taut. His mouth was desperately dry but he managed to croak out the question of circumstance. _

"_In return I would require your knights. Skilled, exciting warriors to fight my team of gladiators—they grow weary of one another. You needn't worry about the protocol, naturally. Besides, in this barren wasteland who will gossip of the whereabouts of a few Samatian knights?"_

"Arthur?" A different voice was calling his name, distantly. His shoulders shook and the dark stone room of the Governor's villa crumbled away. Lancelot was the wrecking ball. The knight stood in front of him now, hands upon his shoulders, eyes critical and worried.

"I _cannot_, Lancelot," Arthur suddenly yelled, breaking loose. "I will not…" He raced out of the stables, almost knocking down Gawain who was approaching. The blonde-haired knight looked at Lancelot quizzically, then turned to watch the retreating form of his commander.

"_Arthur, I give you your freedom, your home, a fortune at no cost."_

"_At no cost?" Arthur had cried. "These men, who I have fought beside, lived beside and died a thousand deaths beside—at no cost? Governor, I strongly doubt that you can ever understand the _enormity_ of such a cost to me. My men have deserved their freedom every day of these fifteen years—"_

"_Damn it all, Castus, I had hoped the sentimentality of your father had somehow been bred out of you. What does it matter what they have deserved? They are _Samatian; _it is only a matter of time before Rome encompasses the whole globe, their pathetic nation included. _

"_Perhaps I should not have made this sound so optional. I am not so much making a request as I am an order. Go back to Rome and forget them and this place, Arthur. Do not dishonor yourself over such a trivial matter."_

"_If you send me back to Rome, I will spend every waking moment discrediting your name and office. I will raise such a hell that you will never be able to set foot on the continent again. You speak of dishonor—I will redefine it for you. You speak of trivial matters—I will make certain this becomes the most damning choice of your life." The governor cackled, evilly amused. _

"_You test my patience, Arthur. But I intend to be more reasonable than you. You are welcome to make a counter-offer and I suggest you do so. I could just _take _them by force, you know, leaving you with no profit from the situation, no choice." Arthur needed no time to prepare his thoughts._

"_Grant my men their freedom and you may have me. I will fight in your 'arena'." The governor's eyebrows rose contemplatively._

"_You shock me, Arthur. You would sell yourself for their sake?"_

"_Fifteen times over. They have suffered and feared for my cause. I would not hesitate to do the same, or worse, for theirs."_

"_Done then!" The governor declared, standing from his throne. "This should prove most entertaining. Of course you must see to your regular duties for now, until the command is officially complete. But I may call upon you from time to time and you will comply, Arthur. Should you fail, I will not hesitate to simply take what I seek." _


	3. Beauty Sleep

Chapter 3: Befriending the Shadows

Gawain had not questioned Lancelot earlier that morning and he had maintained his silent observation throughout the day, when Arthur's door remained shut and locked. He had not shared, not even with Galahad, what had transpired in the stables or what he was witnessing at dinner.

Arthur made a late and inconspicuous entrance, his face showing no sign of repose. Gawain squinted, confused further, as Lancelot's incisive looks at Arthur were ignored. Neither man made an effort to communicate with the other; Arthur sat in the farthest available seat from his knight. Gawain had seen enough.

"What's going on between you two?" he muttered, sitting down in front of Lancelot who merely lifted his eyes over the brim of the glass he was attempting to drain. Empty, the mug clattered to the table.

"I haven't the slightest inkling of what you mean, dear Gawain," Lancelot cajoled in that voice that could fool so many into believing he was already drunk. Gawain knew better.

"Is this just another disagreement over his God and your devilish paganism?" Gawain returned. "Because if it is, let me be the first to say, the two of you need a new reason to toss disgusted glances at one another…" Lancelot's sardonic countenance fell. There was a long silence as both Samatian's noticed Arthur leaving the room far earlier than was usual.

Gawain looked expectantly back at the dark haired knight. "Well?"

"Do not worry about it, Gawain. I'm sure in a few days he'll get over this spout of stubbornness…

"_You_ certainly never do."

"Well then, let's hope he is more mature than _I." _

"I was starting to think you didn't know the meaning of that word…"

"Look—Galahad looks lonely, Gawain, you're neglecting him," Lancelot cooed sarcastically, motioning towards Bors' crowd of children and fan fare, as the giant knight spun one of his famous yarns. Gawain shoved Lancelot playfully, chuckling, and indeed, went to join Galahad. He was satisfied, at least momentarily, that all would heal between commander and knight.

Lancelot, in this case, was the one who knew better. The thought sinking his heart was that not even 72 hours ago, Arthur had been a different man. He thought of his lonely ride home, his vow to wait for Arthur, his promise to himself that Arthur would confide in him always. Never before had Arthur kept something from him. Why now, when the knights had but a few months left in their service, to start?

The ale was smooth and disarming and Lancelot poured far more than he normally would down his throat. "Not even for _God_…" he said to himself, before bursting into a fit of laughter. There were a few stragglers left in the Great Hall, but none sober enough to pay him any heed. He out-drank them all and then drank to congratulate himself.

After getting lost a few times, Lancelot tripped into a hallway that looked a little more familiar. "_Gawain…_" he called out in a sing-song tone, "Galahad is waiting for you!" The knight shook with laughter. "Ooh, shhh, shhh, Gawain must be getting his _beauty sleep! _Otherwise how could he grow those beauteous blonde curls…" This time, he had toppled to the floor in his hysteria.

Suddenly, the darkened hallway was graced with an obnoxiously bring light. Lancelot goofily covered his eyes with one arm, yelling at the sun to come back later. He sat against the wall opposite Arthur's door. The Roman had frozen, perplexed and fearful of confrontation at first. His voice trailed in his knight's name…

"Arthur? Where are you? Are you hiding?" Lancelot said, moving his head from side to side, arm still pinned against his eyes.

"Move your arm, Lancelot…"

"Oh! Well, there you are Arthur!" Arthur had to smile at his knight's exuberance. "I was wondering, Arthur, do you happen to know which one of these is mine?" Lancelot asked, waving his arms in all directions, trying to motion at the wooden doors. Had he been more capable of perception, the knight would have noticed the letter Arthur clutched in his left hand and some of the armor he was strapped in to.

"Yes, Lancelot, I know which room is yours…come, get up." Arthur was no longer smiling; _I've driven him to this_…_I've hurt him…_

"I am UP!" Lancelot cried, pouting. Arthur chuckled softly, bending down, hauling him to his feet. Once in his room, Arthur built a fire and made sure Lancelot knew which of the three beds he was seeing was his. Lancelot flopped down to sleep, reopening his eyes as Arthur pulled a few wraps around him. The room still had a chill.

"Are your clothes always so shiny?" Lancelot asked.

"No, Lancelot…now sleep," the Roman whispered. _Sleep well and remember nothing of this terrible ordeal in the morning. _Arthur ran a hand through the wild mop of curls on his knight's head.

"Forgive me, Lancelot. Be free. I will suffer any horror and brave every pain for the rest of my days with ease…as long as I know you are free…"


	4. Befriending the Shadows

Chapter 4: Befriending the shadows

Arthur had told the watchmen that they must not announce his departure so loudly any longer, and indeed they did not. He slipped away from Hadrian's Wall silently, befriending the shadows. Governor Decius had summoned him already; Arthur was hardly surprised.

His thoughts were distant to him, unreachable somehow. He was prepared for them to remain that way, perhaps for the rest of his life. Reality could not touch him when he envisioned his knights—Dagonet and Bors laughing heartily, Tristan smirking at the head of their procession, Galahad and Gawain embracing and Lancelot cracking some wry comment—as they placed their feet soundly back on Samatian ground. Scarred, yes; he could not protect them from that; but alive. Free and alive. This dream protected him from a harsh new life. Arthur Castus was a slave.

He was led to a new room, an echoing room, at the Governor's villa. There was an enormous oval of sand in the center, bordered by torches and a golden spectator seat, already occupied, of course. With whatever dignity was left in him, Arthur approached his new master.

"So far as good as your word, hmm? Any chance you'll…reconsider this deal, Arthur? It isn't too late, you know." A million biting remarks flew to his tongue; he quietly answered no.

"Excellent. Arthur, I'd like you to meet Drusus, the latest to join my team." Out of a doorway too dark for Arthur to make out stepped another armored figure. It stood ominously, two inches taller than Arthur, several pounds heavier with a blunt, heavy sword securely in one hand which it raised upon hearing its name. It was hardly a man; it was a machine.

Out came Excalibur as Arthur dug a heal into the merciful sand. The governor's single clap signaling the onset of his entertainment was echoless in the vast prison, hitting Arthur's ears brusquely. The giant across from him, eager, charged in the three quickened and far-reaching steps, dropping his weapon to meet Arthur's. After a few blocks and retaliations, Arthur knew his advantage: speed.

Drusus' thick arms produced a power Arthur perhaps could not contend with for long periods of time, but he didn't have to. Each crushing blow the gladiator aimed at him was avoided by a jump backwards, a tuck downwards, a dart to the left. And each time Arthur managed to reach behind the mammoth being, he let Excalibur bestow a greeting on Drusus' legs.

The gladiator's intensity rose with his anger; never had it taken him so long to defeat an opponent. Their battle had been a long one, both dripping in sweat, both growing sluggish in movements. Arthur had cleverly scampered away to the opposite side of the arena and stood calmly, waiting on the next gambit.

Bull-like, Drusus hurled himself forward. Arthur stood his ground, unmoving, not even lifting his weapon, until there was only a flicker of a moment left for his escape and he spun out of the destructive path, maintaining his balance as he formed a circle in the sand with his footwork. Arthur sliced at the back of the falling gladiator's knees, a pained cry breaking the long near-silence.

A few well-placed kicks to the ribs, and a decisive foot on the fallen man's weapon arm and Excalibur was aimed at Drusus' bared neck. Surprised eyes gleamed at Arthur, who almost sensed a fearful pleading. No pleading was necessary, however, and the Roman backed away even though his eyes remained locked on yet another defeated enemy.

But this was no battlefield, Arthur suddenly remembered. Reality crashed in all around him and his eyes blinked rapidly trying to piece together the fragmented images before them. That same hollow applause perked his ears.

"Well done, Arthur, well done on such an unworthy opponent. Your legendary sword skills were hardly tested here, but you forget your decorum in the arena. When your opponent is at your mercy, it is the emperor who decides if the defeated lives…" the governor shrugged before crossing his arms across his chest, "…or dies."

Arthur stood slouched, leaning much of his tired bulk on his sword, glaring at the governor in disbelief. The wealthy man's flippant hand gesture indicated Arthur should retake his previous stance over Drusus. Arthur obeyed, eyes never unlocking from the governor, silently demanding this remain _only_ a lesson in "decorum."

Excalibur was again aimed at its mark. The governor's mouth twisted into a wide, sick grin. Arthur couldn't hold back a sarcastic snort.

"You see, Arthur? Here…," the governor raised his arms up and wide," _I_ am the emperor. In Rome, it is not so, not yet perhaps. But here…we all wait for my decision…is this clear?"

Arthur's features remained so frozen in their deepening hatred for this fellow Roman, it looked impossible that the "yes, governor" whispered across the sand came from his lips. Arthur again began to relax his muscles, move his bloodthirsty blade away.

"Good," the governor shouted suddenly, freezing Arthur. "Kill him."

Arthur's head swiveled, eyes bulging with disbelief. He searched the governor's face for any sign of jest. He found nothing but hard cruelty.

"_Kill._ Him." He said again, teeth clenched. Arthur couldn't understand, couldn't believe—one of his own men, so dispensable? So worthless?

Mostly, Arthur just couldn't relate.

"Damn it, Castus, in this arena every fight will be a fight to the death. And you will follow my orders in so doing, unless you'd like to send your knights in to do it for you. I could really use another fellow Roman spectator." Arthur shook his head quickly, only whispering, "_No…"_

"As I thought," the governor growled before stepping forward, drawing a small dagger from his wealthy robes and lifting Arthur's chin with the blade. The cold metal stung his hot flesh as it slid back down to rest on his Adam's apple. In defiance, Arthur swallowed deeply, testing, pushing the blade away.

The "emperor" bared his teeth wickedly and sickly, as he made Arthur pay for that insolence, by carving a shallow path with the weapon in a half-circle around the front of his throat.

"Don't make me ask again, _gladiator_…or the band around your neck will grow too deep."

Without removing his eyes from the governor, Arthur pushed down on Excalibur swiftly, harshly, his face scarcely flinching as he did so. Soundlessly, life left the bulk under Arthur's blade, by Arthur's hand, staining Arthur's conscience. Again.

* * *

Thankfully, for Arthur at least (the knights grumbled a great deal), the next morning was dark and blustery and he could wear clothing to cover up his exposed wound. It still seeped sluggishly and would continue to do so; there was no real way to bandage it.

The patrol was ten days in length and more miles than Arthur cared to remember. He was wondering what he would do if the emp—_governor_—requested his presence while they were gone. Would Jols read the correspondence? No, of course not, that was a useless worry. But what would the governor's retaliation be?

Arthur shivered stiffly and glanced quickly all around him, spinning almost fully around in his saddle, counting their faces to make sure no danger had befallen them—_Gawain, Galahad, Dagonet, Tristan, Bors, Lan…_

Where was Lancelot? Arthur felt sweat sprinkle his forehead in moments. "Lance--" he began to raise his voice.

"Arthur, I'm right…I'm right here…" Lancelot chuckled out, shaking his head partly in worry, partly in confusion. He was riding at Arthur's left hand side, as he always did and he had just asked him a question. Instead of answering, Arthur had looked around frantically, distracted.

Arthur's dreary eyes locked in the dark orbs next to him and he visibly deflated in relief. Before Lancelot could remark on his behavior Arthur asked him to repeat "whatever it was he had just said."

"I just asked when you were planning to make camp. Tristan says the rain, or snow, whatever it may be, will be falling in less than an hour." Arthur nodded once, mechanically, only because he heard Lancelot's voice stop, not because he had listened to the words. Arthur was too busy asking God to protect his men from Decius' wrath should he not be able to personally.

"Thank you for the information, Lancelot, and yes, of course we should stop soon. Let's ride just a mile more and then make camp." Lancelot mocked loudly, eyes never leaving Arthur drooping face.

Arthur wanted to ask why Lancelot had been talking to himself, but soon he understood what the nonsense pouring out of his first knight meant. He feigned amusement.

"Why don't you and Tristan ride ahead a little and stake out a suitable camp? Try to find something that will stay dry at least for awhile if you can."

"Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"Apologies, Lancelot, my behavior must seem strange."

"Solid understatement, Arthur."

"I haven't been sleeping well."

"You never sleep well."

"Lancelot…"

"Arthur…" He copied back. Both men sighed, nearly in unison.

Conveniently, Tristan rode up next to Arthur's right, breaking through the fog of tension surrounding the two men. Or rather, not conveniently on Tristan's part, as Lancelot mused, but quite on purpose indeed. Tristan did not speak, assuming Arthur already knew his report. Tristan never wasted words when there was no need for them.

"Yes, Tristan, please ride ahead. No more than a mile." The tattooed knight galloped off instantly. Lancelot's acute eyes never left Arthur's grizzled face. After watching Tristan disappear around a bend, Arthur flicked his eyes at Lancelot and away again, not liking the cold questions he found there.

Lancelot snorted. _Figured as much._ He spurred his horse after Tristan's.

* * *

Hmmm, not so much the place I wanted to stop, but at least I finally updated. More is already written (mostly) so please review. And to all my faithful reviewers you guys really are the best. 


	5. Devil's Den

Chapter 5: Devil's Den

The patrol slowed to a crawl. Low clouds pressed against Arthur's brow and his head throbbed as his eyes remained squinted in the partial daylight. _And four days more to come_.

Lancelot uttered not one word to him, nor would he ride next to him. So Arthur had taken to riding in companionable silence next to Dagonet and Lancelot rode grudgingly alone, silent, occasionally interjecting a sarcastic comment towards Bors.

On the seventh day, they awoke to rains which only grew heavier to the North, Tristan claimed. Arthur reluctantly decided to steer the patrol south, trying to spare their tiring bodies the inclement spring (if it could be called spring) weather.

The ale burned long and strong, like a pole of fire through the middle of Lancelot's frame. Draught after draught his eyes fuzzed over but his hearing was painfully intensified. Bors' deep bellow was a tempest in his forehead.

He knew he shouldn't be drunk (not again, not so soon) especially while they were on assignment, passing peacefully on the borders of Woad territory. Gods, how furious Arthur would be. But the ale was too stilling of his mind that urged him to tackle Arthur, drag him off his steed and pummel every secret out of that heavy head.

Tristan materialized at last; he had been absent most of the morning. He appeared next to Lancelot, steely eyes that missed nothing piercing his. Lancelot giggled foolishly.

"You're like a…a….a cat, you know that? _Poof_, there you are! Tell me Tristan…are you… lean closer, I don't want anyone to hear." Tristan did not humor his fellow knight. Lancelot's harsh whisper was mostly lost through his tittering.

"Are you…a wizard?" And Lancelot nearly lost his balance from laughing so hard. Lancelot did not notice when Tristan slid the skin of ale out of its strap, stashing it away on his horse.

"Here now, what's so funny, our pretty knight?" Bors cajoled, turning to bicker with Lancelot.

"Why, nothing at all Bors, 'cept the lumpiness of your enormous head!"

Tristan slipped out from between his now arguing comrades and made his way silently next to Arthur.

"Arthur, the storms have worsened and they're chasing us. There is a Roman villa a few miles east of here…" Tristan suggested, assuming Arthur knew the inhabitants.

How could he have been so careless? Far enough south and surely they would waltz right on to the property of Governor Decius. In Arthur's overtaxed and under rested mind, all the years spent in combat did not equal the danger of coming near _that_ Roman's dwelling.

Arthur did not panic (outwardly) but muttered that he was not familiar with the owners and did not wish to impose a band of smelly soldiers if it could be avoided. And of course, the elements contested him.

* * *

"Arthur, don't you think you could just…introduce yourself? Roman hospitality and all?" Gawain tried, having to yell over the gales and harsh damps. In the early darkness, Arthur's blush of embarrassment and shame was concealed, but he could feel the heat on his face burning deeper into his declining form. His mind would not answer his avid requests for a credible excuse. _I'm protecting them. Rain is better. I'm protecting them. I'm protecting them._

"Come now, Gawain, what is the harm of a little rain? It's refreshing! Besides, it can't last more than a few more hours," Arthur avoided. Gawain gave him such a look—_You call this a _little_ rain?—_ had his path not recently altered so, had his mind not numbed to his new reality, he would have found humor in it.

"Luckily for us all, there's no need to wait," came Lancelot's strong voice, instantly reminding Arthur his knight had taken to Tristan's vanishing acts in the past hour. Arthur stepped out from behind his mount and stood before Lancelot, blinking in the rain.

"I took it upon myself to find some accommodations. The legendary knights of Artorius Castus are most graciously welcome this evening in the home of a Governor Decius recently arrived from Rome."

Lancelot beamed at the commotion he caused, as Galahad whooped and Dagonet quickly started packing away his articles. Only Arthur could not move or breathe or think or function beyond staring emptily at his knight.

With a self-pleased chuckle, Lancelot broke his gaze from his comrades to Arthur who he noticed after a moment was not blinking. A dead voice came forward:

"I do not recall issuing you an order or a request to seek…_accommodations_."

"You've been rather fond of orders lately, haven't you Arthur? Silly of me to forget—"

"_SILLY OF YOU?" _Arthur bellowed, startling a still hazy Lancelot. Arthur never raised his voice…not off the battlefield anyway. But this moment was fast becoming one. Arthur turned around as his brain engaged again, flooding his body with cold. He shivered; six pairs of eyes wavered on him.

"It…Lancelot, I……_damn_." Mechanically, Arthur mounted his horse and sped towards the villa all the while detaching himself from every thread of reality but one, his very wet and tired knights in toe.

* * *

Roman greeted Roman with a civil grace; introductions were brief but the corridor to the Great Room was longer than Hadrian's Wall itself, Arthur was certain, and crowded with menace. He stood at the door, counting as each knight passed him (_1,2,3,4,5,6) _Lancelot had to be defiantly last of course, eyes gleaming in the torch light, trying to excavate in Arthur's presently dull orbs.

"Goodnight, Governor. Many thanks for your hospitality," Arthur smoothed, turning into the high-ceilinged room and roaring fire.

"A moment, Artorius. I was hoping you might join me for a drink. I can give you news of Rome and you can tell me more of these dreary parts and your command."

Arthur could _feel_ Lancelot's eyes rolling at the Roman custom, but he had to graciously accept, if not for show then to appease the threatening stare Arthur was beginning to fear. Armor clinking in time with his racing heart, he hurried to catch up with Decius who had gained ground as Arthur (_1,2,3,4,5,6)_ counted them once again.

The knights made themselves comfortable, spreading out wet clothing to dry, warming wintry faces at the fire. Tristan stood back from them, examining the high beams hanging from the ceiling, another small door in the shadowy corner, a peculiar musty odor. His own instincts compiled with his commander's unease refused to allow Tristan rest. This villa had secrets.

Trays of food and goblets of wine were provided by a team of silent servants. The scout sniffed the provisions, sipped the wine and promptly watered the heavy stone floor with it.

"The wine is sour," he declared, albeit quietly. One servant bowed and moved to take the goblets away. Tristan moved an arm in front of them, shaking his head 'don't touch.' The servant bowed again and scurried off.

After wiping out each now-empty chalice, he alerted his comrades to the refreshments just as a new servant returned with a pitcher of wine. Tristan's eyes did not miss the defeat in this one's eyes, but he snatched the pitcher and poured for himself.

"Much better," he muttered darkly; the servant shivered once and escaped.

Galahad cut in front of Lancelot to reach the meats and bread, earning him an elbow to the ribs. Bors growled crankily, roughly taking the wine away from Tristan. "What's all this then, hogging the wine, give it 'ere…"

_

* * *

__Protect them dear Lord, though they sit in the devil's chamber. Keep my fate sealed; keep my words and the governor's. Let them leave here unscathed…_

"Arthur Castus…" wry cackling broke his thoughts, "Arthur Castus _and_ his knights under my roof! What have I done to deserve such fortune? Tell me, Arthur, do you—"

"This is a mistake."

"More like a nightmare…wouldn't you say?

"Our deal still stands," stated (begged) Arthur.

"You must not have been keeping a very close eye on your men, hmmm? Or else I'm certain that particularly dashing Samatian _dog_ wouldn't have trotted to my door?"

Arthur's lips twitched. "My men were not under any strict orders at the time. They have my trust."

The governor studied Arthur's face through narrow eyes; slowly, his greenish fang-like teeth bared. He held out a goblet of wine to Arthur, who cautiously accepted but did not drink.

"They have no idea, do they?" The governor moved to lounge on his lectus, a rolling laugh spilling out of his greasy bulk. "You trust them, but not with your little…secret…" Decius whispered.

"We will leave before dawn." _They will forget you._

"On the contrary, Arthur, why don't you stay? The weather is inclement and we could use this opportunity to see some excitement, you and I. Samatian animals against the might of Rome, once and for all, ehh? Rome herself is hardly sporting entertainment like that these days."

Risking the penalties, Arthur set his goblet on the Governor's table and turned to leave, a strange urge to vomit and to sit in the familiar dynamic of his men spurring him.

"We will leave before dawn," Arthur repeated as he crossed the threshold and rounded the corner.

"Only if you're up to it Arthur…sweet dreams…" said Decius to Arthur's goblet before pouring the remaining liquid into the lapping flames.

_

* * *

__1,2,3,4,5,6_. Arthur leaned against the cold door, floating in thick relief. Dagonet, who was sharpening a knife by the fire, directed him to the food they had set aside for him. Countless times this day had Arthur been windless; now his tired mind reeled and writhed in his carelessness. _The wine. The wine that I didn't—would not— drink, God…_

He pressed knuckles to his teeth, sharply turning to not count his knights, but observe: Lancelot was cheating young Galahad at dice, Dagonet was busily making sparks, Gawain was stoking the fire, Bors was already snoring and Tristan—

"No need to worry, I spilled the wine. All of it. Before they drank." Arthur had to turn again, for Tristan was suddenly behind him on the opposite side of the table. His voice did not travel beyond the distance to Arthur's ears. The commander's eyes crashed close in blissful thanks at which Tristan inclined his head, no further questions.

"Is there a problem?" Lancelot would not put in the effort to spy and eavesdrop if he could avoid it by simply entering a conversation. He stood to Arthur's left, addressing them both, looking only at Tristan, warily. But Arthur responded:

"Discussing the weather. We're leaving early, in spite of what it may be." The chill in Arthur's voice reminded Lancelot he was not yet forgiven for his boldness and yet that did not trouble him. Tristan's blank expression and silent tongue both irritated and indicated that he was privy to something, _anything,_ of Arthur's that Lancelot was not.

"What news of Rome, Arthur?" asked Galahad, still toying with the dice.

"Governor Decius has little news beyond that of the political realm. Nothing too exciting, I'm afraid."

The knights took after Bors shortly, listening to the heavy rainfall. Arthur made to sleep closest to the door (farthest from the hearth) and was the last to shut his eyes.

And the first to open them, minutes later. _1,2,3,4,5,6. _

The night lasted long in this manner. In the youngest hours of the new day, Arthur was transfixed on the fizzing embers. Lancelot was transfixed on him. As Arthur rolled from his stomach to his side, two flashes caught his eye. Lancelot was sitting up against the wall just paces away. His eyes shimmered, inquiring, demanding, observant. He wanted Arthur to know he had caught him…again. He wanted Arthur to know he was watching intently, missing little.

Every time in his life before this moment, that gaze had made Arthur feel safe, even loved. Now it was threatening—threatening to the very one who gave it.


End file.
